The Exploits of Elaine Part 43

"Confound him!" ground out Clutching Hand, as they saw it.

The other crooks backed away and stood, hesitating, not knowing quite what to do.

The police had by this time finished battering in the door and had rushed into the outer pa.s.sage.

While the flames leaped up, the crooks closed the last door into the room.

"Run!" shouted Clutching Hand, as they opened a secret gate disclosing a spiral flight of iron steps.

A moment later all had disappeared except Clutching Hand himself. The last door would hold only a few seconds, but Clutching Hand was waiting to take advantage of even that. With a last frantic effort he sought to direct the terrific ray at us. Elaine acted instantly. With all her strength she rushed forward, overturning the machine.

Clutching Hand uttered a growl and slowly raised his gun, taking aim with the b.u.t.t for a well-directed blow at her head.

Just then the door yielded and a policeman stuck his head and shoulders through. His revolver rang out and Clutching Hand's automatic flew out of his grasp, giving him just enough time to dodge through and slam the secret door in the faces of the squad as they rushed in.

Back of the house, Clutching Hand and the other crooks were now pa.s.sing through a bricked pa.s.sage. The fire had got so far beyond control by this time that it drove the police back from their efforts to open the secret door. Thus the Clutching Hand had made good his escape through the pa.s.sage which led out, as we later discovered, to the railroad tracks along the river.

"Down there--Mr. Kennedy--and Mr. Jameson," cried Elaine, pointing at the trap which was hidden in the stifle.

The fire had gained terrific headway, but the police seized a ladder and stuck it down into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Choking and sputtering, half suffocated, we staggered up.

"Are you hurt?" asked Elaine anxiously, taking Craig's arm.

"Not a bit--thanks to you!" he replied, forgetting all in meeting the eager questioning of her wonderful eyes.

CHAPTER X

THE LIFE CURRENT

a.s.signments were being given out on the Star one afternoon, and I was standing talking with several other reporter in the busy hum of typewriters and clicking telegraphs.

"What do you think of that?" asked one of the fellows. "You're something of a scientific detective, aren't you?"

Without laying claim to such a distinction, I took the paper and read:

THE POISONED KISS AGAIN

Three More New York Women Report Being Kissed by Mysterious Stranger--Later Fell into Deep Unconsciousness. What Is It?

I had scarcely finished, when one of the copy boys, das.h.i.+ng past me, called, "You're wanted on the wire, Mr. Jameson."

I hurried over to the telephone and answered.

A musical voice responded to my hurried h.e.l.lo, and I hastened to adopt my most polite tone.

"Is this Mr. Jameson?" asked the voice.

"Yes," I replied, not recognizing it.

"Well, Mr. Jameson, I've heard of you on the Star and I've just had a very strange experience. I've had the poisoned kiss."

The woman did not pause to catch my exclamation of astonishment, but went on, "It was like this. A man ran up to me on the street and kissed me--and--I don't know how it was--but I became unconscious--and I didn't come to for an hour--in a hospital--fortunately. I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been that someone came to my a.s.sistance and the man fled. I thought the Star would be interested."

"We are," I hastened to reply. "Will you give me your name?"

"Why, I am Mrs. Florence Leigh of number 20 Prospect Avenue," returned the voice. "Really, Mr. Jameson, something ought to be done about these cases."

"It surely had," I a.s.sented, with much interest, writing her name eagerly down on a card. "I'll be out to interview you, directly."

The woman thanked me and I hung up the receiver.

"Say," I exclaimed, hurrying over to the editor's desk, "here's another woman on the wire who says she has received the poisoned kiss.

"Suppose you take that a.s.signment," the editor answered, sensing a possible story.

I took it with alacrity, figuring out the quickest way by elevated and surface car to reach the address.

The conductor of the trolley indicated Prospect Avenue and I hurried up the street until I came to the house, a neat, unpretentious place.

Looking at the address on the card first to make sure, I rang the bell.

I must say that I could scarcely criticize the poisoned kisser's taste, for the woman who had opened the door certainly was extraordinarily attractive.

"And you really were--put out by a kiss?" I queried, as she led me into a neat sitting room.

"Absolutely--as much as if it had been by one of these poisoned needles you read about," she replied confidently, hastening on to describe the affair volubly.

It was beyond me.

"May I use your telephone?" I asked.

"Surely," she answered.

I called the laboratory. "Is that you, Craig?" I inquired.

"Yes, Walter," he answered, recognizing my voice.

"Say, Craig," I asked breathlessly, "what sort of kiss would suffocate a person."

My only answer was an uproarious laugh from him at the idea.

"I know," I persisted, "but I've got the a.s.signment from the Star--and I'm out here interviewing a woman about it. It's all right to laugh--but here I am. I've found a case--names, dates and places. I wish you'd explain the thing, then."